Cupid Wounded

Cupid the Honey Thief (1514), Albrecht Dürer


Once as Cupid, tired with play,
On a bed of roses lay,
A rude bee, that slept unseen
The sweet-breathing buds between,
Stung his finger, cruel chance!
With his little pointed lance.
Straight he fills the air with cries,
Weeps and sobs, and runs and flies;
Till the god of Venus came,
Lovely, laughter-loving dame;
The he thus began to plain:
‘Oh! undone — I die with pain —
Dear mamma, a serpent small,
Which a bee ploughmen call,
Imp’d with wings, and arm’d with dart,
Oh! has stung me to the heart.’
Venus thus replied, and smiled:
‘Dry those tears, for shame! my child;
If a bee can wound so deep,
Causing Cupid thus to weep,
Think, Oh, think! what cruel pains
He that’s stung by thee sustains!’
– Anacreon


Cupid complaining to Venus (1525), Lucas Cranach the Elder

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